The moon had gone down, and it was dark. There was frost on the dead grass, and I went out under the old apple-tree and sat down. What should I do? Where was my mother? She was the only one in the world whom I cared for or who loved me. She was gone, it was night, I was alone and hungry and cold and lost. Perhaps some of the neighbors might know where John Rucker had taken my mother--this thought came to me only after I had sat there until every house was dark. The people had all gone to bed. I tried to think of some neighbor to whom my mother might have told her destination when she moved; but I could recall none of that sort. She had been too unhappy, here in Tempe, to make friends. So I sat there shivering until morning, unwilling to go away, altogether bewildered, quite at my wits' end, steeped in despair. The world seemed too hard and tough for me. In the morning I asked at every house if the people knew Mrs. Rucker, and where she had gone, but got no help. One woman knew her, and had employed her as a seamstress; but had found the house vacant the last time she had sent her work. "Is she a relative of yours?" she asked. "She is my--" I remember I stopped here and looked away a long time before I could finish the reply, "She is my mother." "And where were you, my poor boy," said she, "when she moved?" "I was away at work," I replied. "Well," said she, "she left word for you somewhere, you may be sure of that. Where did you stay last night?" "I sat under a tree," said I, "in the yard--up where we used to live." "And where did you get breakfast?" she asked. "I wasn't hungry," I answered. "I've been hunting for my mother since daylight." "You poor child!" said she. "Come right into the kitchen and I'll get you some breakfast. Come in, and we'll find out how you can find your mother!" While she got me the breakfast which I needed as badly as any meal I ever ate, she questioned me as to relatives, friends, habits, and everything which a good detective would want to know in forming a theory as to how a clue might be obtained. She suggested that I find every man in the village who had a team and did hauling, and ask each one if he had moved Mr. Rucker's family. "Why didn't she write to you?" she finally queried. "She didn't know where I was," I replied. "Did she ever leave word for you anywhere," asked the woman, "before you ran away?" "We had a place we called our post-office," I answered. "An old hollow apple-tree. We used to leave letters for each other in that. It is the tree I sat under all night." "Look there," said the woman. "You'll find her! She wouldn't have gone without leaving a trace."